


here is my song for the asking

by kaydeefalls



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Femslash, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four requests Morgana has made, and four answers she may have received.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here is my song for the asking

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to fiercynn for the beta. Only vague spoilers for S2; neither confirms nor directly contradicts canon for the end of S2. Title from the song by Simon &amp; Garfunkel.

**iv. sunrise**   
_I've been waiting all my life_

She rides out of the east, her back to the cresting sunrise. Blue-grey shadows veil her face, and her crimson cloak is rusty in the hazy pre-dawn light, like dried blood. Her horse's hooves are muffled by the fallen autumn leaves strewn across the road. Leaves swirl in her wake, marking her passage.

The walls of Camelot rise before her like a childhood memory, wreathed in mist. She whispers a few ancient words, reveling in the spark of power against her lips. The fog thickens with the shadows and softly fading night.

She rides out of the east, and the eastern gate of Camelot is barred to her. She knew it would be. She murmurs a question to the winds, and hears the answer rebound upon her, like an echo off a cavern wall: _he is waiting._

"You missed the ceremony," he says, not quite startling her, his lean frame obscured by the shadow of the portcullis as she reaches the gate.

She shrugs, pushing back her hood. The mist feels cool against her cheeks. "I rode through the night."

"You shouldn't have come."

She smiles sweetly. "You would deny me the right to celebrate my liege lord's marriage?"

There's an inelegant snort, not at all befitting the most powerful warlock in the realm and the King's closest advisor. "You _never_ offered Arthur your allegiance."

"Perhaps that shall be my wedding gift to him."

At that, he takes a protective step forward, emerging from the shadows. The first rays of dawn pierce the mist to illuminate his wary eyes, the familiar, determined set of his jaw, the shimmering stone set at the top of his staff. "Forgive me if I am disinclined to trust your _gifts_, my lady."

It stings, which catches her by surprise; over the long years, she's forgotten that she once valued this man's friendship and good judgment. The sharp retort rises to her lips unbidden. "And yet _your_ gifts failed to deter him from my maidservant's bed."

The fog begins to dissipate, her control over the magic slipping in her distraction. She can make out his features clearly now, see the years between them etched upon his face. He's young, still – he can't be more than thirty, if that – but already she can trace the faint worry lines at his brow, the crow's feet fanning out from the edges of his eyes. His dark hair, grown longer than she's ever seen it, is already thickly flecked with silver threads. No one can harness power such as Merlin's without paying a toll. And unlike certain perpetually youthful sorceresses she might mention, he would never think to waste magic on his own appearance.

"It's their wedding night, Morgana," Merlin says wearily, looking too old and too young all at once. "Can't we give them this much, at least?"

Her anger fades with the early morning mist. "Arthur was always like a brother to me," she says softly. "I would not see him harmed."

"You will not see him at all," he replies, with surprising gentleness.

When he turns to leave, she reaches out to him, calling the breeze to ruffle his hair like a sister's hand. She only has one bargaining chip to offer him. "Emrys," she calls, enjoying the cadence of the word along her tongue.

The name is her bribe; he takes it gladly. This is the game they must always play, now. Besides – to call a dragon by its true name, to speak to it in its own tongue, gives one power over it; to call _this_ man by his true name seems only prudent.

"You've passed time among the Druids," he murmurs, the fresh calculations whirring almost audibly through his thoughts. "But we heard reports that you had crossed the seas to Breizh."

"I traveled there for a time," she concedes, her lips pursing into a moue of disdain. "But I didn't much like their name for me."

"No? But it does suit you." Merlin's eyes are distant, whether pondering the Druidic or Breton connections, she can't tell. This is the price she offers him, another clue to her recent doings and possible schemes. Let him carry the tale to Arthur; let them speculate. That's part of the game – part of the bargain.

Now it's Merlin's piece to move.

"I have allowed them their wedding night, Merlin," she reminds him, not allowing her hands to tremble on her horse's reins. "And I am not here for your king."

He regards her impassively. He's learned some measure of discretion, then, since she last knew him. Good. After a moment, he steps back, drawing his worn russet cloak closer about him. "I will not help you."

And she hears clearly what he cannot say aloud: _but I will not hinder you. _

Dawn breaks over the spires of Camelot. A cloud shifts, and a ray of sunlight escapes to glint off the shimmering stone set at the head of Merlin's staff. Morgana blinks, momentarily dazzled; when her vision clears, he's gone. She smiles and turns her horse's head down to the south, away from the city walls and toward her father's grave, the wind singing her bittersweet triumph and carrying her song to the windows of the castle.

And so it is Queen Guinevere comes to meet her by morning sunlight, dark curls unbound and smile dazzling as the dawn, still sweetly sore from her new husband's bed.

*

 

**iii. midday**   
_thinking it over, I'd be more than glad to change my ways for the asking_

It's in Cumbria she finds him; a land of vast lakes and crags, and the declining Corbin Castle, fort of peaks, _Caerbannog_ in the old tongue. Morgana has learned to appreciate the true names of things. It is ancient magic, older than the dragons or druids, much worn and subdued in this dawning age of the young Pendragon. She missed the coronation, of course, foster-sister and once-rumored future queen, sorceress in exile. It was risky enough to cross back over the sea; she dares not venture near the borders of Camelot. Arthur may newly reign as king, but the price on her head stands as high as it ever did under his father's rule. The world doesn't change _that_ quickly. It's a bitter irony, she supposes, that magic may be practiced freely under Arthur and his pet sorcerer (or is it Merlin and his pet king?), but she still remains unpardoned.

She will never rule beside Arthur now. No queen ever truly shall, she suspects, though many ladies of Albion strive for the empty title. Well, let them. There is only one way that particular tale will end. She has seen it in her dreams, and runs from her own foreknowledge as fast and hard as she ever once ran from Uther's vengeful knights.

There is one other, at least, whose heart may be as bitter as hers.

The castellan's daughter greets her at the rusted gate, eyes downcast, voice low and sweet. She's a pretty child, somewhat in the dusky tone of her skin and graceful curve of her waist recalling another, much dearer girl to Morgana's mind. "What does my lady will?" the girl – very nearly a woman – murmurs, darting a curious glance up at Morgana through her dark lashes.

Morgana touches the castellan's daughter's soft cheek with pale fingertips. "I know he's here," she says, in her most regal tone. "Tell him I have come."

The girl blushes. "I don't know of whom you speak, my lady."

"He can hide from the new king of Camelot as long as he wishes," Morgana says, voice like steel. "I don't care. He shall not hide from me." She deliberately softens, her lips curving into a kind smile. "Tell him I swear on her heart we both value highest to never reveal his place in _Caerbannog_ to the man who slew the Gryphon."

The message confuses the poor child, Morgana can tell – wasn't it Sir Lancelot who so famously dispatched the beast, after all? – but she ducks her head and runs off, dark curls spilling down her back.

It hardly takes ten minutes before Morgana is escorted into a private, secluded courtyard, ringed with ancient trees and crumbling mortar, soft grass overtaking the cracked paving stones. It looks like it might once have been a temple of the old religion. The castellan's daughter watches her nervously, too well-bred to fidget; her eyes brighten with relief and something like yearning when he finally joins them.

Well, Lancelot always did cut a fine figure of a man.

"Thank you, Elaine," he says gently; it's clearly a dismissal, and the girl bobs her head and makes good her escape.

They regard each other evenly for a time, gauging the changes wrought by time. He looks more settled, somehow, and sadder; the gravity suits him well. She wonders how she appears in his eyes.

"You took a risk, skirting so close to Camelot," he says at last.

She shrugs gracelessly, letting her light cloak slip from her shoulders. The summers are cool here in the mountains, but the midday sun is passing hot in this courtyard. "The crown rests uncomfortably on Arthur's head for now; let him look to his own borders. He will not build his empire entire in Albion for a few years yet."

"Albion," Lancelot echoes, tasting the word on his tongue. "The ancient kingdom reborn. You do think the Dragon's prophesies are true, then?"

"Of course." Morgana takes a step closer to him. "And I wish Arthur well in it."

He raises his eyebrows. "Do you think he has any reason to trust you, Morgana?"

She quirks her lips into a bitter smile. "Does he have any reason to _dis_trust _you_, Lancelot? I wondered, at first, to hear that the realm's most renowned knight missed the coronation."

"Arthur trusts me," Lancelot says, voice harsh. "But Merlin keeps a wary watch on me, and I mistrust myself in his eyes."

In spite of everything, her heart sinks a little. Somehow, until this moment, she'd tried to convince herself it might not be true. "Then the Great Dragon foresaw the same union that I did."

Lancelot nods grimly. "And the possibility that one or both of us might yet fracture it."

"I've already cheated myself out of _that_ particular opportunity," Morgana remarks. In more ways than one. "But Guinevere is not yet spoken for, Lancelot. Why do you hold back?"

"It's rarely wise to steal a good lady from the heart of a king."

"He has no precontract with her. If anything, _you_ were there first."

"And you first of all, yet you ran further than I ever did." Lancelot's gaze is too sharp, stripping her of a few of her many defenses. "Why does it fall upon me?"

"Because you're a better person than I can ever hope to be," Morgana whispers. "You came early enough into their tale. You can _change it._"

Lancelot smiles, but his eyes are dark and bleak. "And this is why _you_ are the witch and I the humble knight. I don't seek to alter lines already writ, Morgana."

"What will you, then, Lancelot?" She kneels before him, grass warm and soft beneath her knees, not knowing what power now moves in her but obeying it all the same. She has not grown so strong in her magic to deny it when it sings in her veins. The ancient stones surrounding the courtyard hum in approval of the consecration. "If it is within my power, I shall grant it. And I have power to spare, these days," she adds wryly.

But he just shakes his head, crouching down to meet her on her level. "You may have the power, but I would not ask it of you."

"No," Morgana says softly. "But then, Guinevere has never been mine to give."

"Nor mine," he agrees. "Nor Arthur's. Only her own, and she gives her heart gladly to all who are worthy of it." He hesitates, then; it's an odd look for him, reminiscent of his very earliest days at Uther's court, coltish and uncertain in all but his swordsmanship. But when he finally stretches out a hand to cup her cheek, it's anything but tentative.

She leans into his touch, surprising herself. But it's been so long. She is witch, sorceress, devil-spawn, wise woman, traitoress, revolutionary; there has been no room to simply be a woman. The sudden flush of heat in her blood reminds her: _this, this too. _

"What will you?" she asks again, voice low and husky.

"Show me—" He coughs, cuts himself off, tries again. "I want to see you the way Gwen does."

She closes her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sunlight on her eyelids, the unwonted tenderness as he trails a path down her throat with his lips. _This is how he touches Gwen_, she thinks; _this is how I respond to Gwen's kisses._ Guinevere is the absent conduit between them, her heart so large and generous that here, now, in this sun-drenched courtyard in exile, there is room for them both.

Lancelot tugs at her stays, unlacing her bodice with sure, warm fingers. "Show me, Morgana," he murmurs.

She is bare before him, before _her_. She always has been.

_Morgan le Fay_, the Bretons call her; she spreads her arms above her, hands facing upward to the noontime sun, and lets the golden rays spill into her open palms like honey, sweet as the taste of his mouth on hers.

*

 

**ii. sunset**   
_this is my tune for the taking – take it, don't turn away_

The shadows in her rooms are lengthening, and she's just about to call Gwen to light the candles when Arthur bursts into the chamber and tells her to get packing.

Morgana gapes at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Pack," he says again, closing the door firmly behind him. "We're going for a ride."

She raises one eyebrow delicately. "And where, pray tell, are we going? I need to select the appropriate garments, you understand."

"_We_ are going to visit your father's grave, because you felt a sudden pang of filial affection for his restless spirit," Arthur says grimly. "And then _I_ am returning to the castle in the company of a tall, skinny figure wearing your cloak, and _you_ are riding as hard and as fast as you can to cross Camelot's borders before sunrise."

Her heart is beginning to thud painfully at her breast, but she keeps her voice steady. "Why, what happens at sunrise?"

"I give my men the order to arrest your maidservant," he tells her. His tone is flat and emotionless. "For high treason against the crown."

For a moment, she can't breathe; it's like a physical blow. No. Not Gwen. He's bluffing, he _must_ be.

"You've gone mad," Morgana says. She keeps herself as still as a snake about to strike. "Gwen would never—"

"Of course not. But the letters we will find in her possession – linking her to a surprisingly intricate conspiracy of foreign nobles and disaffected peasants—"

Morgana doesn't protest that she burned those letters, even though she _did_, she could have sworn she…_oh_. She wonders how long Merlin has been watching her. She wonders if Arthur knows the lengths to which his manservant will go to protect him – the laws he's willing to break. "Gwen has nothing to do with it," she hears herself saying, distantly, in a voice not quite her own.

"And so the trial will find," Arthur agrees coldly. "It's hardly her fault her sorcerous mistress abandoned her to shoulder the blame."

Morgana doesn't know any spells for destruction, for burning, for rending Arthur from limb to limb. Her magic is not like Merlin's. Lucky Arthur. "And if I refuse to run?"

"Then you will burn on my father's pyre at Guinevere's side." Arthur's throat works, as though he's trying to swallow back bile. He takes no satisfaction in the threat. "Please, Morgana. You're like a sister to me. I don't want to—"

"Then why do anything at all?" Morgana spits. "Your father would strangle the life out of the earth along with its magic. And if you will do his bidding, have a care. I'm not the only sorcerer in the King's household, you know."

He presses his lips together into a thin line. "Do you honestly think I don't realize that? I'm not half as stupid as he thinks I am, Morgana. But _Merlin_ isn't trying to assassinate my father!"

The last dying rays of sunlight spill through the open windows, striking red sparks from Arthur's golden hair. The hottest flames have blue at their heart, the exact shade of his eyes as he stares her down. They grew from childhood together; she has certainly seen him angry before. But not like this. In his rage, she can see the makings of his kingship; he just so damnably _noble_, and that will be his undoing as surely as Uther's cruel prejudice will be his.

Arthur cannot help but try to protect those he loves. His father, Merlin, Gwen, even Morgana herself, with this mad attempt to buy her time she probably does not deserve, though he can never forgive her. She hates him for it, a little. He can only break her heart.

"I'll go," she says, adopting a softer tone. She ducks her head down as though in submission, hair falling across her face as she collects her racing thoughts. She always knew this moment might come, and she is not caught utterly unprepared. So: the druids have been hunted too far north; that would deliver her into the reach of the tribal lords, whose lust for wealth would make her too tempting a target. She would not dare venture within a hundred leagues of Mercia, either. The ancient isle of Avalon is still hidden to her; her powers are not yet strong enough to afford her safe passage there. South, then – make the sea-crossing to Breizh and her co-conspirators amongst the Breton nobles. They will seek to use her, of course, but they are weak and greedy; she knows which of their strings to pull. Yes.

_Exile_, her heart whispers, twisting hard in her chest; she is to be driven away from the land she loves and strives to save, from those people dearest to her, from—

"I'll go," she says again, lifting her eyes to Arthur's. "But, please, don't drag Gwen into this. She knew nothing, I swear to you—"

"Morgana, you just tried to overthrow my father's government," Arthur says, with grim humor. "I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. But as long as I keep Guinevere close by my side, I know you won't dare to make a move against me." His eyes harden. "_Will_ you, Morgana?"

Arthur doesn't realize. He hasn't seen the potentialities in her dreams, in her scrying glass – the diverging possibilities, the ever-darkening future under Uther Pendragon, fires spreading from Camelot to the five kingdoms and across the sea to Breizh and beyond. Nor can he read the constellations of his own reign – the once and future Albion united, the dark shadows tarnishing the golden crown of a Golden Age. By holding her Gwen close, he sows the tender seeds of his own doom. Morgana has seen it.

She will not warn him. That's Merlin's job now.

"Let me see her," Morgana pleads, and hates herself for being reduced to this. "I need to tell her – I just want to say goodbye, you can't deny me this—"

"You should have thought of that before you turned traitor," Arthur says, immovable, though sympathy lurks in the shadows behind his eyes.

She doesn't say another word as she packs her saddlebags.

At sunrise, Gwen will find soldiers in her doorway and her mistress vanished; Arthur will release her before the day is out. Morgana will watch the moon rise over the white cliffs, lights glinting off the sea waves. The Breton ship is already there awaiting her.

*

 

**i. midnight**   
_ask me and I will play all the love that I hold inside_

The dreams are always different, and that's what frightens her the most.

Oh, she used to get repeat nightmares, like the ever popular Arthur-drowning-in-lake one. Those were intense and terrifying, the sort that woke her up still screaming. But lately the dreams come in fragments, apparitions of events yet to unfold, which weave together patchwork visions of possible futures that chill Morgana to the bone and set all the candles in her chambers aflame.

She sees Uther standing before a burning pyre, long cloak seeped with blood, madness in his eyes; someone is screaming in pain from the depths of the flames. It might be anyone. It might be herself.

She sees Arthur crowned, sundrenched and solemn, Merlin the shadow at his back. He appears tinged with gold: golden crown, golden hair, golden glints in Merlin's eyes. The crown seems to weigh heavily, but Arthur holds his head high. Merlin smiles.

She sees Gwen dressed in robes of finest velvet, hair coiffed to regal perfection, neck gracefully arched as she watches a tourney. There is a silver circlet pinned among her curls. Her eyes are dark and sad. Swords clash together with startling urgency.

She sees death in the form of a young druid boy, and a dragon's malevolent grin. She sees lightning crackle at a strange woman's fingertips. She sees an isle wreathed in mist and earth drenched in blood. She sees gray seas and white cliffs.

She feels – empty.

When she awakens, breath heavy and ragged, Gwen is already at her bedside. "Morgana?" she whispers. "You were tossing and turning, you were mumbling strange words in your sleep—"

Morgana reaches out blindly, and Gwen joins her on the bed without hesitation, taking her in her arms.

The curtains are open. Morgana is certain Gwen drew them closed before dousing the candles tonight. Starlight glittering through the windows shows a chamber in disarray, garments and bedclothes strewn about as though by a heavy wind. Morgana shudders and holds Gwen close.

"Another nightmare?" Gwen murmurs, pulling back slightly to look into Morgana's face.

_Nightmare_ isn't the correct term. If only Morgana had the right words, could put true names to the visions that haunt her sleep, perhaps she might understand them better. Perhaps she might _control_ them. But she can't.

"Do you ever feel like the future is already writ?" Morgana asks, tears in her eyes. "And there's nothing you can do about it?"

"Now you know what it's like to be a servant," Gwen remarks wryly. Her soft voice is low and affectionate, taking the sting out of her words.

It's enough to startle a laugh out of Morgana. Gwen smiles at that, palms smoothing down Morgana's rumpled nightgown. Her touch is calming.

"It's not like you to sit back passively and let the fates control you," Gwen goes on, tracing patterns across Morgana's skin. Her fingertips stutter over the gap between Morgana's collar and her bare neck. "If you don't like the possibilities in your nightmares, _change_ them."

Morgana catches Gwen's hand, stilling it. "I don't know if I can."

Gwen smiles, bright in the darkness of the bedchamber. She brings their clasped hands to her lips. "My lady," she says, her voice rich with warmth, "if anyone could alter the future, it's you." And for that, Morgana has to kiss her – even if it isn't true.

Everything about Gwen is soft –full lips, satin skin, gently tumbling curls. Even here, alone together with no other eyes upon them, there is a shyness in her touch, in her smile. Morgana wonders if anyone else sees the core of iron underneath, the strength of Gwen's beliefs, her faith. Her love.

Perhaps it's selfish, but Morgana wants to hold that secret close, just for a little while. To have Gwen all to herself for as long as she can.

The stars are fading in the dark velvet sky outside her window. The darkness of the room shifts, takes on a bluish-gray quality. Morgana presses her lips to Gwen's shoulder and closes her eyes against the coming dawn.


End file.
